


For Love of the Child

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 08:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim balances the demands of a child murder case with a trip to North Carolina to confront Blair's abuser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Love of the Child

## For Love of the Child

by Daydreamer

Author's website:  <http://www.geocities.com/daydreamersden>

Not mine. They belong to the legal owners and I am just borrowing them. No money changed hands.   


Part of the Leaving Series which includes:   
Waiting   
Paper Kisses   
The Box   
Are We Leaving Again, Mommy?   
The Closet   
NanaKat   
Big Boys, Bears, and Boo-Boos   
A Child's Cry   
Rage Against the Past   


Warning: Contains graphic depictions of child abuse.

This story is a sequel to: Rage Against the Past 

* * *

Tracking down Don had been surprisingly easy. As I'd told Simon, he was in the phone book. He owned a hardware store and was apparently well-known in his small community. Single father -- two kids. The mother had disappeared years ago. Sounded far too familiar for my liking. 

The only difference was Don had a daughter. She was the oldest at seventeen. The boy was only eleven. I spent the flight reviewing the information I'd managed to put together on this man -- and wishing I'd been able to talk to Naomi. But she was nowhere to be found -- imagine that. 

The plane landed in Norfolk, Virginia, and my rental car was waiting. It was a little more than an hour's drive, but by noon, I was in Elizabeth City, North Carolina. 

I wasn't sure what I was going to do. There was this overwhelming urge to just _kill_ the guy. I mean, I could do it -- and I could get away with it, too. But, Simon already knew where I was, and why, and if Don Stanley suddenly turned up missing ... Well, I couldn't put Simon in that position. 

So -- outright killing the son of a bitch was out. 

For now. 

So why the fuck was I here? 

What exactly did I think I could accomplish? 

I sat in the car outside Stanley's Hardware and waited. I could hear the people inside, had narrowed them down until I knew which one was Stanley. He had a deep baritone full of false bon homie cheer. He'd have made a good used car salesman. He sounded -- slimy. What the hell had Naomi ever seen in this guy? 

I entertained myself with creative uses for a belt and tried to decide if I could get away with beating the shit out of the guy and then slipping into the woodwork. 

Oh, yeah. I was a piece of work. Big talk -- big plans. But here I am now, and I don't know what the fuck to do. All I know is that I _had_ to come. So here I am. 

I've run every background check on this bastard that I can. He's come up clean. A few speeding tickets, several burglaries where _he_ was the victim, and a single public drunkenness charge from almost thirty years ago. 

Fuck this. 

I can't kill him. 

I can't really get away with beating the shit out of him. 

But I can, by God, _talk_ to him. 

And maybe, just maybe, I can give him a few nightmares of his own. 

Maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to make him as insecure as he's made Sandburg all these years. 

I take a deep breath, pull my cell phone, and dial. 

"Hey, Dad? It's me, Jim. I need some advice ..." 

Two more conversations with the family lawyers and I'm ready. I haul myself out of the car and stalk toward the building. I push the doors open angrily and am disappointed to find that they close slowly on their own, instead of providing me with the satisfaction of a good slam. "I want to see Don Stanley," I announce in a loud and obnoxious voice from the front of the store. 

A nervous young woman walks up to me. "Is there a problem, Sir?" she asks. "Can I help you?" 

I look down at her and give her my most feral smile. "Yes, thank you. You _can_ help me. You can take me to Mr. Stanley." 

I follow her to the back of the store and when she knocks on a closed door, I push past her and shove my way through. Turning back, I say, "That will be all, Miss. Thank you for your help." 

And then I turn and look at Don Stanley. 

Blair's abuser. 

The man who beat a child. 

He's tall, not quite as tall as me, and heavier. He carries that middle age spread and his skin is pasty. His blue eyes are pale and watery and they dart from me to the door and back again. He's lost more hair than I have. 

"Who are you?" he demands, rising from his desk. 

"I'm here on behalf of Blair Sandburg," I say, as belligerently as possible and I smile in satisfaction as immediate recognition crosses his face and he pales. "Mr. Sandburg plans to take civil action against you for your past abuse of him." 

I have to hand it to him -- old Don recovers quickly. "Are you a lawyer?" 

"No, Donny-boy," I say slowly, "I am *not" a lawyer. I know lawyers. I engage lawyers. I will pay for lawyers until I am completely broke and," I look around the small office with its cheap paneling and worn carpet, "I can assure you my assets will last far longer than yours. But as for what _I_ am? I'm something you should fear far more than lawyers and legal actions. I am Blair's _friend._ " I lean forward on the desk, the muscles of my arms taut as I say, "And I _hate_ seeing my friends get hurt." 

Don sputters for a minute, his face white and his hands shaking. "You can't just come in here ... threatening me ..." 

"Ah-ah-ah, Don," I chide him gently. "I haven't threatened you -- not _yet._ " 

"It was years ago -- he was just a little kid. I never really hurt him," the bastard whines. 

"Really?" I say, as I unbuckle my belt. 

"He was a trouble-maker, a liar. He was always making things up." His eyes are glued to my hands as they slowly pull the belt out of the loops on my pants. 

"He was _four_ _years_ _old,_ " I respond in a deadly quiet voice. 

"I never hurt him ..." Don is pleading now. He clings to his desk for support. 

"He has _scars,_ you fucking bastard," I spit as the belt comes out and I slam it on the desk. 

Don falls to his knees. 

"Do you know how many ways you can use a belt to hurt someone, Don?" I ask quietly, and he shakes his head, his face a mask of fear. "I've spent some time working on that problem, Donny," I continue, my hand on the belt where it lies on his desk. "Sleepless hours while I've sat up comforting my friend when nightmares about you have disturbed his sleep. I've come up with over forty." I step forward and smile as he pisses himself. "Let me tell you about them." 

When I leave, Don is still on his knees in his peed in pants, but there's not a mark on him. I haven't touched him. I haven't even threatened him -- not directly. I've just spent some time sharing theories of creative alternative uses of a belt with him. I carry my belt as I walk through the store and climb back into my rental. 

I'm still listening to Don, listening as he climbs to his feet. Listening as he changes his pants and yells at his secretary. Listening as he answers the phone and a small voice says, "Daddy?" Listening with growing alarm as Don snarls, "Go to your room and wait there." Listening as he leaves the store and gets in his SUV and pulls out. 

And then I am no longer just listening. 

I'm following. 

And watching. 

I see him park in front of a large house. 

I watch him go in the front door. 

I hear him scream "Ryan! Get your ass down here!" 

And as the child's feet hit the stairs, I'm out of the car and running and I know I'm going to be too late. I did this. I wound this man up and sent him home to take it out on another defenseless child and I am running as fast as I can, racing across the street, across the grass, but the boy is down the stairs now, and I can hear the first blow, and the first small cry and I'm flying, flying over bushes and up the stairs and the door, the fucking door won't open, and he's hitting that boy, _beating_ him, and the fucking, fucking door won't budge and I'm screaming, screaming, screaming because I did this, I did this, this is my fault and I can't make it stop and there's a window over there and I'm running back, running forward, and he's hitting, hitting, hitting, and the boy is crying and now there's a girl too and she's screaming, begging, pleading, stop, stop, stop, and I hit the glass and it shatters into thousands of pieces that rain down all over me and I'm in and I'm up and now I am hitting, hitting, hitting, over and over again and there's still screaming, I'm screaming and Don is screaming and the boy is crying and the girl is crying and then, suddenly, like someone threw a switch, Don stops screaming, and it's over. 

The rage flows out of me as quickly as it rose. The red edges of my vision clear and I look around. Don lies in a crumpled heap on the floor. The girl sits on the stairs, her arms wrapped protectively around her brother as he buries his head in her belly. 

I look again. 

Her _pregnant_ belly. 

They're both still crying, but softly now, and the girl is talking to the boy through her tears. 

"I'm a cop," I say thinking that may calm them. I take a step forward, then stop when the boy shrinks away. "It's okay," I whisper, "I just want to make sure you're all right." 

The boy says something that even I miss, but the girl looks up and tells me, "His arm hurts. He thinks it's broken again." 

I nod. "Let me call for an ambulance -- and the police." 

The girl's eyes narrow as she looks at me. "I thought you said you were a cop." 

I nod as I look around for a phone. There, on the table. I pick it up and dial 911. "Not a local cop," I say, "but I am a cop." When the dispatcher answers, I identify myself and then ask the girl for the address, repeating it into the phone. When I am assured help is on the way, I move toward the stairs, and this time the boy doesn't pull away. 

* * *

We were at the hospital when the girl came up to me. She was waiting for her brother to be patched up and I was waiting to see the extent of the damage I'd done to Stanley. I wasn't under arrest yet, but I was well aware that I could be at any moment. The fact that the boy's arm _was_ broken and he had obviously been beaten before I managed to intervene had kept me out of a jail cell thus far. 

"Why are you here?" the girl asked me as she sat in the chair next to mine. 

"The police are waiting to see how badly your father is hurt," I said, "to see if they need to charge me." 

"He's _not_ my father," she said, venom dripping from every word. "He's just some man my mother left me with when she couldn't deal with him anymore." 

"Mmmmm," I said, noncommittally. "I guess that means I don't have to tell you I'm sorry I hurt him." 

She snorted. "Are you?" 

I looked at her closely. She was young, but her eyes were old and far too familiar with pain for someone her age. "Not really," I said quietly. "He hurt someone I care about." 

"I wish you'd killed him, just killed his fucking ass," she swore softly. "We'll have to go back to him now." 

I shook my head. "Don't think so." 

She looked at me and her eyes were suddenly alive with hope. 

"I may be in some trouble over the beating I gave him, but I still saw what he did to your brother. He'll be arrested for child abuse -- and I'll testify against him if need be." 

"No one will believe you," she said softly. "No one ever believes." 

I reached out and touched her chin, drawing her face up so she met my eyes. "They'll believe me," I said firmly. "I really am a cop, and they _will_ believe me." 

She studied me for a long minute, then nodded and looked away. "Are you really going to get in trouble?" she asked. 

I shrugged. "I don't know. But I can tell you this: I'd take any trouble they wanted to give me if it meant I could have stopped him before he touched your brother." 

She snorted again. "You'd have had to have been here ten years ago to stop that." 

"My friend -- his name is Blair -- he lived with your father. He and his mother lived with Don when Blair was only four." 

"Did he beat him, too?" 

I nodded. "Yeah, he did." 

"And that's why you were here today? Because of your friend?" 

I nodded. "Yeah. For him." 

"Then he saved us," she said simply. "He sent you here to save us." 

I didn't know what to say to that, but if she felt she'd been saved, then I was all for it. 

"His name is Blair?" she asked and I nodded again. "My name is Sara," she said, extending her hand. 

I took it gently and we shook. "I'm Jim. Jim Ellison." 

"Detective?" a portly man in a Sheriff's uniform called. "Can I have a word?" 

I nodded and rose, bending back down to speak to Sara for a moment. "You're going to get lots of help, Sara," I promised, "people will listen to you now." I pulled a card from my wallet and passed it to her. "My phone numbers are on there, and my address. If you have problems getting people to listen, you call me, understand?" 

She nodded mutely, staring at the card as if it were gold. 

"Detective?" the Sheriff called again. 

"One minute," I called back. "Anything, Sara -- if you or Ryan need anything, call me." 

She nodded and I turned and walked over to the Sheriff. 

"Good kid," he said quietly, "but I never would have imagined that was going on in Don's house." 

"There aren't any questions about what he was doing, are there?" I asked sharply, and the big man shook his head. 

"Nah. One look at little Ryan in there and any thought of questions goes right out the window." He looked at me, sort of appraising me up and down, then asked, "How the hell did you keep from killing that son of a bitch?" 

I laughed. "Wasn't easy. But my partner wants me to come back, and going down for murder kinda works against that concept." 

The Sheriff nodded, smiling. "The kids have a great-aunt who lives a few towns away. She's coming to get them." 

"They'll get counseling?" I asked. 

"Oh, yeah. We'll make sure they get everything they need. Miz Katie'll have plenty of help; won't none of us forget what we let happen to these two young 'uns." 

"Am I under arrest?" I finally asked. 

"Nah. Go on over to the motel and get a room. Take a shower. Get the glass out of your hair and change your clothes. I'll be in touch with you tomorrow, let you know what's happening." 

"Fair enough." I stuck my hand out and shook the other man's. "I'll see you in the morning then." 

He nodded and wandered away and I headed out to my car. The motel was only a few miles away and securing a room was not a problem. Once I was settled, I called Sandburg and lied through my teeth about the conference I wasn't attending. Then I spoke to Simon and told him what was going on. I could hear his blood pressure shoot up when I told him I wouldn't know until tomorrow if I was going to be arrested or not. 

"Just -- keep me informed, Jim," he said stiffly. "Call as soon as you know something." 

"I'm sorry, Simon," I said, and I genuinely was. Not that I'd hurt Don, but that I'd let Ryan get hurt and that now, if I was arrested, Blair would be hurt again. It seemed my best intentions had fucked up once again. "I'll call as soon as I know something." 

I showered, peroxided the many tiny cuts that the broken window had given me, and then ordered a pizza. North Carolina was playing Tennessee, and while not my beloved Jags, it was a good game and I tried to relax as I watched. My head had been hurting since I got off the plane this morning, a steady background kind of ache and I spent a few minutes playing with my dials, trying to turn things down. I got it, but it was always so much harder without Sandburg. 

Once the game was over, I settled into the bed and I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew it was three in the morning and the phone was ringing. 

"Ellison," I said thickly. 

"Sheriff Hayes here," a familiar voice said. "Sorry to wake you, Detective." He didn't sound sorry. "There's been a complication." 

"Yeah?" 

"Don Stanley hung himself in the bathroom of his hospital room tonight." 

"He's dead?" I asked, my mind still struggling to wrap itself around the words I was hearing. 

"Oh, yeah. He's dead." 

"Why?" 

I could hear the man's clothing rustle as he shrugged. "Some of my boys were telling him what happens to a child abuser in jail. Guess he didn't want to wait around and see if it was true." 

"What about me?" I was sitting up in the bed now, the spread pulled loosely over my lap as I waited to hear my fate. 

"Looks like you're free to go. Stanley's not around to press charges and I sure as hell am not going to press 'em for the man." 

"I can go?" I said stupidly. Okay, three in the morning is not my best time. 

"Well, I'd like you to come in tomorrow -- well, later today -- and fill out some paperwork, answer some questions, but yeah, after that I'd say you can go." 

"So I can go tomorrow?" Still not my best conversational volley, but if it got me a commitment on freedom, I was happy. 

"Yeah, tomorrow," the Sheriff said. "Give me today to wrap things up and you can get out of here tomorrow." 

"Thanks, Sheriff," I said. "What time do you want to see me?" 

"Well, considering I just woke you up, why don't I let you sleep in and you come on in around eleven? How's that sound?" 

"Eleven it is," I repeated. "I'll see you then," 

I hung up the phone and dug out my calling card, then dialed. 

"Banks," a distracted voice answered at my loft. "Sandburg, it's all right," I heard him say as he placed a hand over the phone. 

"Simon," I said loudly, straining to get his attention, "is Blair all right?" 

"Oh, Jim, it's you." I could hear the relief in my boss's voice. "I hope this isn't bad news." 

"Sandburg," I repeated, "is he okay?" 

Simon sighed. "Nightmare. He doesn't want to talk to me, but he's pacing all over the place, his t-shirt's soaked, and he looks like he's about to fall apart." 

"Let me talk to him." 

"What's going on, Jim?" Simon asked. 

"Just let me talk to him, okay? Then I'll explain." 

I could hear Simon telling Blair it was me, and then the phone was passed over. "Jim?" he said in a tiny voice. "Are you all right?" 

"Everything's fine, Chief," I said cheerily. "At least on my end. Simon says you're having a rough night." 

"I guess," he mumbled. "Just, you know -- remembering." 

"I want you to do something for me, Blair," I said quietly. 

"Sure, Jim." 

"Go take a shower. Get cleaned up; you'll feel better. Simon will make you some tea. When you get out of the shower, we'll talk and you'll drink tea, okay?" 

"Maybe that's a good idea, Jim" he said slowly. "I could probably do with a wash." 

"All right, then. Give the phone to Simon and hit the water." 

"Jim?" It was my boss again. "How'd you get him to agree to the shower? I've been trying to convince him for thirty minutes." 

I chuckled. "I promised him you'd make him some tea." 

"Great." I could hear Simon rummaging as he spoke. "Where does he keep that stuff he drinks?" 

"Canister on the counter," I responded easily. "Just put the water on to heat while you change the sheets." 

Simon sighed dramatically. "You owe me, Ellison," he muttered but I could hear the linen closet opening and I knew that when Sandburg got back into bed, it would be into fresh sheets. 

"Stanley killed himself," I said, and there was a long pause. 

"Shit." 

"Yeah. But I'm not being charged. I can leave tomorrow." 

"You gonna tell the kid what's been going on?" 

My turn to sigh. "Yeah, but not now. For now, I'm gonna work on getting him to sleep. I'll call him again tonight and tell him everything." 

"Bed's done," Simon said and I could hear him moving down the stairs to the stove where the kettle was beginning to whistle. 

"Did I tell you thank you, Simon?" I asked. "Because, you know, thank you." 

Hmmmmphf," he grunted and I could hear him call in the background. "Get over here, Sandburg, and talk to your partner." 

"Thanks, Simon." The words were muffled but I could hear them. "Hey, Jim," he said, and he sounded better already. 

"How's the tea?" I asked. 

"Hot." 

"Smart ass." 

"No, really, it's good." There was a pause and I could hear him sipping. "Are you really okay, Jim?" 

"Yeah, I really am. How about you?" 

"I'm -- better," he said somewhat hesitantly. 

"Then tell Simon good night and head on upstairs." 

"You're letting me take tea into the bedroom?" 

"Give it a rest, Sandburg, and get your ass upstairs." I was laying back down on the bed, and just hearing his voice, listening to his breathing was calming. My dials, which had been sliding all day, settled almost immediately. "What did you dream?" I asked quietly when I could tell he was settled in the bed. 

"I was in the closet. Don and Naomi were fighting." 

"It's over, Blair," I said gently. "He can't hurt you anymore." 

"Can you hear my heart?" 

"Yeah. It's settled down a lot." I rolled onto my side and balanced the phone on my ear. 

"Can I listen to you sleep?" he asked. 

"I'm coming home tomorrow," I said. "I'll call you later with the flight information. Be there for me?" 

"Always." 

"Blair?" 

"Jim?" 

"Good night." 

Neither one of us hung up. 

* * *

Sandburg was waiting for me when I got off the plane. He looked good -- a little pale, but my two days away obviously hadn't destroyed him. I swallowed a laugh and wondered if it wasn't the height of hubris that I should think I was so integral to my guide's survival. Sheesh! Of course he was okay. He was a grown man and he'd certainly survived far worse than my two day absence. 

"Hey," I said as I walked up to him. I had my bag slung over my shoulder and I was ready to go. Air travel always wreaked havoc with my senses. Between the vibration of plane, the air pressure, and the constant whine of the engines, my head was killing me. 

"Head hurt?" he asked sympathetically, and I nodded. 

He reached out and touched my arm and it felt -- good. 

"Are your dials turned down?" He was looking at me, nothing but worry for _me_ in his face. 

"Yeah," I replied wearily. "Turned everything down before I got on the plane." 

He pulled me over to one side, out of the middle of the concourse. "Let's check," he said and it made me smile. I might be the big bad Sentinel, and I might be genetically predestined to take care of the tribe, but Sandburg was the _guide,_ and _he_ took care of _me._

"Close your eyes," he said softly and of course, I obeyed. "Let it all go -- just filter it all out until you hear nothing but me." 

As I listened to his voice, the surrounding sounds faded away until he was all I could hear. I nodded shortly, then waited. 

"Look at the dials, Jim," he ordered. "Are they down where you set them?" 

I checked. Everything had slipped. Of course my head was hurting. Hearing was way up -- filtering everything out but Sandburg had helped, but things were still leaking through. No wonder my head was throbbing from the whine of the jet engines. I cranked it down and breathed an audible sigh of relief. 

Sight was only slightly off, as were taste and smell. I lowered them without a problem. But touch was up too, and I was having trouble getting control. I frowned as I worked at it. 

"What is it, Jim? Which one?" 

"Touch. The vibrations from the plane have had my skin crawling nonstop for over five hours and I can't get it to stop." 

He pushed my sleeve up, then lightly touched my arm, rubbing in a slow up and down movement. As he continued, his touch grew slightly harder, slightly firmer. "Sift through it, Jim," he commanded and as I focused on his touch alone, the creepy crawly sensations that had been driving me nuts slowly disappeared. I followed my guide's instructions, grounding myself with his touch and his words, and my headache began to recede. What blessed relief! 

"You okay now, man?" Blair said worriedly, looking up at me as I slowly opened my eyes. 

"Yeah, Chief," I said with a smile and I reached out and gave him a hug. "Better 'n okay." I lowered my head and breathed against his neck for a moment. "Missed you." 

He was beaming when I let him go and as we headed out of the airport he said, "Missed you too, big guy. Simon was great, but ..." 

"It's not the same," I finished for him, and he burst out laughing. 

"Yeah, man. Definitely not the same." 

We were at his car now, and I threw my bag in the backseat, then climbed into the front and buckled up. Sandburg was in the driver's seat, key in the ignition, but he made no move to start the car. 

"Blair?" 

He turned and looked at me, smiling slowly. "You only call me that when you're worried or scared. Which is it this time?" 

"Does it have to be either?" I said, smiling back. "Maybe I just wanted your attention." 

"Nah, man. You'd have touched my arm for that." 

I turned my head and looked out the window. Did we really know each other so well that we knew how the other would react? I knew if I called him 'Blair,' he'd immediately focus on me. I even knew that it would let him know I was concerned. And he knew that. He knew what I would do to get his attention. He'd known just from looking at me that my head hurt and how to make it better. I couldn't decide if all this knowledge was comforting or frightening. 

He was still sitting there, hands gripping the wheel at two and ten, still not moving. This time when I turned to him, I did touch his arm. No words, just the weight of my hand resting against his forearm. 

I waited. 

"Is he really dead, Jim?" he asked in an almost silent voice. 

"Yeah. He is." I squeezed his arm lightly then dropped my hand. 

"Good." There was a thread of ruthless fury that echoed in that word, a sense of complete satisfaction. I wasn't so sure my satisfaction was complete; I thought the bastard got off easy. But if Sandburg was content ... who was I to argue the point? 

"Jim?" he asked again. 

"Yeah, Chief?" 

"You, uh ... It wasn't you ... I mean, he really did just kill himself, right?" He still wasn't looking at me. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, staring out of the window at something I'm sure he wasn't seeing. 

"He killed himself, Sandburg." I waited. "I saw him beat his son -- eyewitness testimony. He knew he was going to jail, and the local cops, they made sure he knew what happened to child abusers in prison." I didn't tell him that the bastard had used his _belt_ to hang himself. 

He didn't respond, so I reached out and touched him again. "Blair ..." 

He took a deep breath and then laughed softly. His fingers on the wheel relaxed marginally. "You did that on purpose -- my name and a touch." 

I laughed, too. "Don't push your luck, Sandburg. You're an anthropologist, not Dr. Freud." 

He waved his hand dismissively. "Same, same. We all study people." 

"He really did kill himself, Chief," I said quietly. 

"And the boy -- Ryan, was it? He's okay?" 

"He's okay, Sandburg. He and his sister are gonna go stay with family. They're gonna get some counseling. They'll have plenty of help now." I touched his cheek and he finally turned and looked at me. "It's over." 

He shook his head. "I should have done something sooner, said something sooner. Those kids -- maybe they wouldn't have had to ..." 

I couldn't stand it anymore. I reached out and pulled him into my arms, holding him close. It was awkward -- the steering wheel was in the way and my legs were twisted. Didn't seem to matter. He threw himself against me and hung on. 

"I should have _done_ something ..." he whispered against my chest and I could feel the tears start. 

"Shhhh," I soothed. "It wasn't your responsibility, Blair. You are not responsible. Don did this -- he did it all. He hurt you, and he hurt his children, and now he's dead." 

"But those kids ..." 

"They'll get help. The girl -- Sara -- she's pregnant, Blair. Gonna have a little girl of her own. That's one child that will never have to experience what you did." I took a deep breath. "You saved her, Blair. Because of you, that little girl is never going to have to be afraid of that monster." I kissed his head. "You did good, Chief." 

"Is it enough? Is it really enough?" 

"It's enough," I said with certainty. "You saved them all. We'll make sure those kids have all the help they need. They're gonna be all right." 

He cried for a bit longer, then sniffed and snuffled against my chest. "I'm tired," he said at last. 

"Didn't sleep while I was gone?" 

"Some," he said with a shrug. "Simon tried. I mean, I know he cares, but he didn't know what to do. And really, Jim, I need the man to have some respect for me. I just couldn't let go and fall apart." His eyes came up shyly and he looked at me. "Not like I can with you." The shyness shifted suddenly and I could see the mischief rise in his face. "I mean, with you big guy, I _know_ you'll respect me in the morning." 

I couldn't help it -- I burst out laughing. "You're insane, you know that, Sandburg?" 

He laughed again, delighted, and pulled back to sit up. 

I cuffed him on the head. 

"Affection," he said knowingly. "You're like, stuck at ten, still on the playground. You like somebody, so you hit 'em." 

I snorted. "Still analyzing me, Chief?" 

"Got it down, man. I _know_ you." 

"Yeah, well, you missed on that one." I smacked him again, gently. "That's exasperation, bud, you should know that." 

"Yeah, right," he muttered under his breath as he started the car. "Live with your delusions if it makes life easier." 

I leaned back in the seat, relaxed for the first time in weeks. I was home. My head didn't hurt. My stomach wasn't churning. My guide was happy. Life was good. 

What more could a man ask for? 

* * *

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked him as we parked outside the church. 

He nodded. "I need to." 

We walked in together and I was surprised to find Simon waiting in the vestibule for us. "Saw you parking," he said shortly as we approached. 

The church was fairly large -- would probably seat 800 people and it was almost full. Pews, divided into four sections arranged in a semi-circle before the altar, were almost completely filled, with the back a bit more full than the front, of course. 

I recognized just about every politician in town -- the mayor and vice-mayor, city councilpersons, members of the school board. The Police Chief and Fire Chief were there, as well as Ranier's Chancellor and President of Cascade Community College. There would be no problem if anyone needed a doctor -- there were so many medical people I had to wonder who was staffing the hospitals. The media was everywhere. I sighed and wondered if anyone actually mourned this child's death, or if this was just one more spectacular opportunity for spin for all of Cascade's shining luminaries. 

The casket was set in the center of the church, in front of the altar, and a short line of people waited to file by. I glanced at my partner and saw him taking deep breaths and then he straightened and moved to join the line. Simon and I exchanged a quick look, then hurried after him, catching him in a few steps. We flanked him to the front, then waited patiently until it was his turn to step forward. 

Without speaking, Simon and I stepped back to allow Sandburg a moment alone. Simon moved back, forcing those waiting behind us to take a few steps back too, and I stepped forward, toward the pews. It kept people in their seats and gave me a chance to really study the attendees. 

Behind me, I could hear Sandburg talking to the girl. His voice was low -- I'm sure I was the only one who could hear him and I listened as he crooned to her. "I'm so sorry, little one. This should never have happened. He was supposed to take care of you, protect you and love you. Not this." His voice broke and I turned, ready to move to him if I needed to. "Never this." 

His hand hovered over the girl's body, it just hovered for a moment, and then, faster than I could follow, it dipped down and there was a tremendous 'rrrrriiiipppp' and he whirled, the high lace collar of the little girl's dress clutched in his hand. He brandished it like a weapon as he faced the people. 

"You knew!" he roared. "You think you can cover your sins with beauty?" He waved the collar at the people in the pews. "You can't hide her pain behind velvet and lace. I won't let you hide!" 

The church had been quiet before, just the soft murmuring of people as they whispered to one another, the quiet tears of those who cried. But now -- absolute silence reigned and no one dared move. Every word my partner spoke rang in the stillness. 

Tears were streaming down his face as I finally broke from my shocked stupor and stumbled forward to catch him, but he darted away from me. He raced toward the family and shoved the bit of lace into their faces. "You saw her every day! You lived with her! How could you not know?" 

Before I could reach him, he'd darted away again, the lace still thrust out before him. "And you -- her teachers. You were with her for six hours a day. How dare you say you didn't know?? How dare you?" 

Simon was sliding toward him from the other side, but Sandburg saw him and he moved again, avoiding us both. "She was a just a little girl. You -- her neighbors. What did you hear from that house? What did you ignore, because you didn't want to get involved?" The hand with the lace dropped and he seemed to sag into himself. "You're all here now -- ready to be involved because this is _exciting._ This is _newsworthy._ You can make yourselves feel better because you came." 

I was behind him now and I wrapped my arms around him and started moving him toward the door. We were almost out of the church when he dug his feet in, pulled from my grasp and turned. "What did she suffer, because you couldn't bother to be involved before?" 

* * *

I got home first today. It's been two weeks since the funeral. I was afraid Sandburg was going to end up in jail after that little debacle at the church, but the famous Sandburg luck or charm or whatever, kicked in. Or maybe it's just the damn Sandburg _zone_ that sucks everyone within range into its vortex. Whatever it was, after the funeral was over, people started coming forward with stories about Doctor Costas, and suspicions about Olivia, and we listened and made notes and followed up leads and eventually found the damn belt he'd used. He'd put it in a storage locker he'd rented under an assumed name. 

I shook my head. Why the man had kept it was beyond me. If he'd just tossed the damn thing, he'd have gotten away with it. But when confronted with the evidence, he'd broken down and cried and claimed he couldn't part with the belt, because it was the last thing he'd _shared_ with Olivia. 

I felt the bile rise in my throat and swallowed hard. 

When pressed as to _why_ he'd done it, the good doctor had simply said, "I love her. I just wanted to show her that I loved her." 

Sick fuck. 

I snagged a beer from the fridge and opened it, drinking deeply, then sank on the couch to go through the mail. Bill, bill, credit card application, bill. Something from some foundation for Sandburg. I set that one aside, hoping for his sake it was good news. 

And then, there was a card. 

From Edenton, North Carolina. 

I put the beer on the end table and opened the cheap white envelope. I was curious. What was this about? Inside was a picture, a newborn baby with a healthy shock of dark hair. I smiled as I looked at the scrunched up face. Turning the card over, my mouth dropped in shock. 

Ann Blair, it said. Seven pounds, six ounces. 

Dear Detective Ellison, 

Thank you for everything. Ryan and I and Ann Blair are living with NanaKat now, and everything is going to be fine. 

Sincerely, 

Sara Stanley 

I held the picture and stared unseeing at the tiny, puckered face. I lifted my beer and drank the rest in one swallow, then turned the photo over again and read once more. My eyes lingered on a single word: 

NanaKat 

* * *

End For Love of the Child by Daydreamer: daydream59@aol.com

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